


Of Paw Prints and Guitar Strings

by julia_in_outer_space



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: Dogs, F/M, Fluff and Angst, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julia_in_outer_space/pseuds/julia_in_outer_space
Summary: Harry Styles runs a dog rescue center. You'd rather like to be rescued as well.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Reader
Kudos: 14





	Of Paw Prints and Guitar Strings

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: https://outer-space-writings.tumblr.com/

Loneliness was a cold-faced bitch.

It settled down in the marrow of your bones, like tar on a sea bird’s wings, weighing you down until the smallest step forward felt like swimming through cement. The feeling was more familiar to you than your own name, at this point.

Perhaps it was because there was no one around to say it, to call it. Maybe you’d forget it, soon enough. And wasn’t that an emo thought?

You should have stopped thinking about it, you knew. So what if your family no longer picked up the phone when you called? What if your friends were more acquaintances of circumstances? What if the most social interaction you got per day was from the angry notes your neighbour left under your door when you dared play some music to fill your silent apartment?

God, you sounded so pathetic. But you couldn’t really help it. You were so touch-starved you sometimes imagined that your pillow was someone’s chest. It wasn’t even about sex. You’d set up a Tinder account some months ago, but the meaningless hook-ups did nothing to alleviate the heavy feeling in your chest.

You wanted someone to hold your hand. Someone who would call you in the middle of the night because they missed the sound of your voice. Someone who bought you stupid keychains because they’d thought of you.

Someone who wanted you, who needed you.

You should really get a dog.

“Oh my God, I should get a dog,” you said, unfurling from your favoured position on your bed, aptly named “little-ball-of-misery-feeling-sorry-for-herself”.

You looked like a hot mess. Your hair was tangled beyond repair, you were wearing a shirt that was more coffee stains than fabric and your entire body felt sticky with dried sweat. In your defence, though, this was August in Los Angeles and you were self-employed. There wasn’t really any reason to look presentable.

Except a dog. You would try to look human enough for your dog.

You could see it now. Your apartment was big enough, and being a photographer, you were outside most of the day. You could take a dog with you. A big dog, so that sketchy people would stop asking you if you had weed and get mad when you said that no, you didn’t. ~~why did people keep thinking you were a stoner, did you have a junkie face or something?~~

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Let’s go get a dog.”

******

The New Hope Rescue Center that Google Maps had directed you to was a rather dreary place. It looked like whoever had designed the building had tried to make it pretty by painting the walls a bright yellow, but the color had faded and was now more of a depressing beige.

The big parking lot out front was empty, save for one white classic Mercedes Benz that you ogled shamelessly as you set your old, creaky bike against the wall. This kind of car made you wish you knew how to drive. The cost of gas, however, quickly put an end to that particular dream.

The bell jingled as you entered the rescue center, the sound echoing in the empty reception area. It looked just as depressing as the outside, and the decoration had obviously not been updated since the 90s. The carpet was an ancient, dark green that was more moldy than a party platter of Bleu cheese and the walls were littered with what actually seemed like bullet holes.

You approached the desk hesitantly, your sneakers scuffing the floor as you went. There was no bell or button to press, and your social anxiety skyrocketed at the idea that you would have to announce your presence another way.

Before you had the opportunity to call out, you heard a door open to your left and you whirled around, a tentative smile plastered on your lips.

The man that entered the room froze as he saw you, like a deer caught in headlights. A fashionable deer, in fact. You couldn’t help your eyes from studying him, because honestly? Who wore a Tom & Jerry pullover with a string of pearls, polka-dotted pants, and heart-shaped sunglasses? He looked as if he’d gotten dressed from a kindergarten lost & found box.

“Uh, hi?” he said, and _oh._ British.

“Hi. I’m here for the dogs. I mean, _a_ dog. Singular. To adopt.”

Dear God, could you sound any more awkward? This was why you stayed inside most of the time.

“Really?” the man said, his eyebrows shooting up, far above his admittedly pretty green eyes. “Yeh wanna adopt a rescue?”

“Isn’t that what people do, when they come here?”

He shrugged, leaning against the desk.

“Nobody comes here, excep’ debt collectors.”

“Oh.”

There was a tense silence as the man sighed, lost in thoughts while you stood there, half-wondering if you should just go to a pet shop and get a goldfish or something. Certainly, that would include less talking.

“Anyway!” he said suddenly, lighting up like a Christmas tree after a power outage. “Dogs!”

“Dogs,” you repeated.

“Dogs. Let’s get yeh a dog. I’m Harry, by the way.”

You introduced yourself as he got up from the desk, an excited skip in his step. He held the door open for you, leading you through empty corridors that smelled a bit like dog urine, if you were being perfectly honest.

The man – Harry – was walking so fast you were struggling to follow, nearly tripping on your own feet as you hurried on.

“What were yeh thinkin’ about? Big dog, small dog, old dog, young dog?”

“Um, I guess I’d rather have a big dog?” you said hesitantly. “I don’t really care about how old it is.”

“Cool, cool. Big dogs need a lotta exercise, yeh good with that?”

You went through another door, and you started to hear some yipping and barks.

“Yeah, I – I’m a photographer, so I’m outside a lot. It’s not an issue.”

“Ever had a pet before?”

“Does a stick insect count?”

He barked out a laugh, turning his head to look at you, his eyes twinkling.

“Big step up there, but I’m sure yeh can handle it.”

You weren’t as sure as he was, but before you could voice your concerns ( ~~What do you do if the dog doesn’t like you? What if it eats your wallpaper? Do dogs get sad when you’re sad?~~ ), you went through yet another door and found yourself in the kennel.

While the other parts of the building had been rather unkempt, the actual kennel was obviously well maintained. It still didn’t smell great, but it was clean, bright, and inviting. The cages were big, and each one of them contained a comfy-looking bed and toys.

The dogs went nuts when they saw Harry, jumping at the gates and barking joyfully. There were about two dozen of them, varying from breed to height to age.

“Hello, my loves!” grinned Harry. “Look who I’ve brought.”

You stayed a bit further back, nervousness rising in your veins. What did you think you were doing? You could barely take care of yourself; how could you take care of another living being?

Harry looked back at you, his grin turning into a soft smile as he noticed your hesitation.

“Come on,” he said. “There’s someone I’d like yeh to meet.”

With a jerk of his head, he led you to the back of the kennel, to the last cage. And inside was possibly the saddest looking thing you’d ever seen.

“This is Poppy,” said Harry. “She was found tied up on the side of the highway a year ago, an’ she’s never really recovered from that. She needs someone who’s got the time and will to love her the way she deserves.”

Harry’s words sunk into you like rocks, but your eyes were fixed on the dog. She was curled up at the back of the cage, gazing up at you with big brown eyes that looked like they held all the misery in the world. You didn’t know dog breeds well, but if you had to guess, you would say she was some sort of a mix between a Golden Retriever and a German Shepherd.

But mostly, she looked…she looked lost. As if she knew she didn’t belong in this kennel but had stopped hoping for anything else long ago. You knew the feeling.

You slowly sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the cage. Not reaching out. Just…being there.

“Can I –?” you began but found you didn’t have the right words to finish your thought.

“Take as long as yeh need,” said Harry.

You heard his heavy footsteps fade as he left you alone with Poppy, back to the other dogs. You couldn’t look away from the dog – your dog, you knew.

“Hi,” you said, so quietly you barely heard your own voice. “I’m Y/N. You and I look like we could be friends, one day. If you’d like.”

You kept up a steady stream of words, barely aware of what you were saying. But Poppy listened, and you could have sworn she relaxed more and more as you talked. How was it possible that you loved her so much already?

“We’re the same, you and I, huh?” you continued. Poppy sniffed into her paws, as if doubting your words. “I mean, despite the obvious anatomical differences. We both got left behind by the people we trusted. And I bet you don’t understand why. Me either.”

Poppy shuffled a bit, crawling an inch closer, her head bopping up as she looked up at you with those sad, sad eyes. You got down on your stomach, lying on the cold cement floor.

“You’ve got no reason to trust me, I know. But I know what it’s like to want to be loved, and I promise you I’ll do my very best so that you never have to be alone ever again.”

You put your hand flat on the side of the cage and held your breath, staying so still you felt as if you were becoming one with the cement underneath you. Poppy whined, her tail wagging somewhat as she bopped her nose against the center of your palm.

“Shall I get the papers then?” you heard Harry say from somewhere behind you, not having gone as far as you thought.

“Yeah. I think so.”

******

It was funny how quickly your mood shifted once you brought Poppy home. Your entire universe shifted to this four-legged fluff ball you now called your best-friend. Was she warm enough? Did she like her food? Should her bed be even more comfy? Was she happy?

On the other hand, Poppy did seem like she was going through the same process with you. She _never_ left you alone. She sat at your feet in the kitchen, slept at the end of your bed, laid her little head on your lap as you worked. The first time you’d tried to take a shower, she’d cried and cried until you’d opened the door.

You went from being completely alone to having a companion 24/7. And you _loved_ it.

Ironically, your art had never been better. The gallery you sold your photography to was loving it even more than before. The owner had told you there was a new, optimistic energy to your work, and had asked you if you’d found yourself a boyfriend.

You supposed you’d found yourself something even better.

“How could anyone give up someone like you, uh, baby?” you cooed as you scratched Poppy’s back, your dog looking very blissed out on the carpet of your living room. “You’re such a good dog.”

She whined, as if agreeing with you. Like, _yeah, I’m an absolute treasure and I know it_.

It had been a month since you’d adopted Poppy, and more and more, you wondered why she hadn’t been adopted. A _year_ , she’d spent at the rescue center. How the hell had no one come snatch her up before you did?

And you felt a bit guilty, you supposed. There had been so many dogs at the rescue center. You’d barely even seen them, but you imagined some of them must have been there for even longer than Poppy. It seemed sad that they would live out the rest of their lives in cages.

“You know what?” you told Poppy, who straightened her flappy ears up. “Let’s do something for your pals. Uh? How do you feel about that?”

******

“Yeh want to do what?”

Harry was wearing a dress today, with plaid patterned pants underneath. He still had his pearl necklace around his neck, but the heart shaped sunglasses were nowhere to be seen. How he pulled off the look, you had no idea, but somehow, he did.

“I want to set up a social media account for the dogs. Every single shelter in LA is on Facebook, or Instagram and Twitter, except this one. I’m fairly sure that’s why you don’t get any visitors.”

Harry leaned back against the desk in the reception, running a hand through his brown curls. He looked uncomfortable, his sea foam green eyes shifting all over the room, never settling on anything.

“If you don’t want to do it, it’s fine,” you said hurriedly. “I just thought it would help.”

“It’s not that,” he sighed. “It’s jus’…do yeh know who I am?”

You frowned, looking at Poppy as if she had the answer.

“Um, no?”

“Yeh don’t listen to music a lot, do you?”

You shook your head. You listened to music sometimes sure, but mostly the old rock albums your uncle had left you before he’d passed away. Anything more recent than that, you didn’t bother.

“I thought so,” continued Harry. “Look, a few years ago, I was kinda…well-known. Was in a band, but we broke apart and I decided I wanted a normal life. I found this shelter, and it’s been great. I love the anonymity.”

There was something that made you think he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Some sort of longing, in the way his eyes darkened.

“I’m afraid of attracting the wrong sorta attention,” he said. “That the people who come here, it won’t be for the dogs.”

He looked so small. Vulnerable, in a way that no one should ever be. And it broke your heart, in the same way that seeing Poppy for the first time had made you feel. As if, he too, was looking for somewhere to belong.

“Alright,” you said. “How about this? We set up the account but make no mention of you. No one will ever have to know you work here.”

“An’ what about when people come to see the dogs?”

“I’ll show them around. And you can hide in the bathroom or something.”

Harry barked out a laugh, the pearls clinking around his neck.

“Yeh realize that means yeh’ll have to be here every day, right? I can’t pay you. Most of my money went to charities, and what little I’ve got left is for the dogs.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Rockstar. I make more than enough to survive, and I have so much free time, I don’t know what to do with it.”

You thrust up your hand, looking at Harry with resolve. He laughed and shook your hand as Poppy yipped happily between the two of you.

“Alright, then. Let’s get those dogs adopted.”

******

It was easier said than done, of course, but weren’t most things this way?

The rescue center was an absolute mess. Harry had obviously spent his entire time and efforts into the cages area, and then just…stopped. And while you appreciated the fact that the dogs were comfortable, you would argue that his human guests also needed somewhere to sit that wasn’t covered in mold.

“But I like this chair,” Harry whined as you dragged it outside.

“This chair looks like it belongs in a Nirvana music video. They’ll make better use of it at the recycling center.”

“Weren’t yeh supposed to set up a social media account, instead of getting rid of all my furniture?”

You straightened up, pushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your eyes.

“I need material to work with, pictures that catch people’s attention, and a building that doesn’t look like a meth lab.”

“Yeh really like your metaphors, don’t you?”

“Part of my charm,” you quipped as Harry heaved the chair into the truck you’d rented for the occasion.

You were spending money left and right on this mission of yours, but you were lucky enough to be quite successful in your career and you could find no better cause to spend your overly gross commissions on.

You watched as the truck drove away in a cloud of dust, standing by Harry’s side, with Poppy at your feet.

“Now what?” asked Harry.

“Now, we wait for your brand new, colourful, mold-free furniture to be delivered.”

Harry looked at you, an emotion you couldn’t place filling those eyes of his as he kicked at the ground with a worn-out shoe.

“Why are you doin’ this, Y/N? What’s it to you?”

You shrugged, the suspenders of your overalls slipping from your shoulders.

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s not good enough. You’re spendin’ so much money, and you’re not gettin’ anything in return. Why?”

You looked at Poppy, who was having a grand old time rolling around in the dirt, just so you wouldn’t have to meet Harry’s eyes.

“I find it hard to get out of bed in the morning sometimes. I have no purpose, nothing to really live for. I got Poppy so I would have this – this responsibility, this reason to think about anything else but myself and how alone I was.”

Your throat closed up, your eyes burning as you kept talking, your voice quiet in the wind.

“She’s the best thing that happened to me in a long, long time. And it’s thanks to you, and this place. I’m just trying to return the favour.”

There was a moment of heavy silence as Harry digested your words, the weight of his gaze boring into you.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he said then, quietly. “To not be so alone anymore?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “It really is.”

You had a feeling neither one of you were talking about the dogs.

******

“What about this one?” you asked, lifting your laptop so that Harry could see the screen from his perch on the brand-new armchair.

The furniture had arrived four days after you’d gotten rid of the old one, and you could tell Harry loved it. It was very _him_. Colourful, eclectic, looking like a mess that was somehow very appealing. The entire shelter looked incredible, if you said so yourself, and the immense feeling of pride and satisfaction still hadn’t faded.

“I like it,” said Harry. “But where’s the one of Pongo licking Tampa’s nose?”

You tapped on the keyboard a few times until the screen showed another one of the pictures you’d taken of the dogs.

The photoshoot had taken so long. You hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to keep a bunch of dogs still, long enough for you to get a good shot of them. Especially when all they wanted was to play.

You were nothing if not persistent, however, and Harry had a real talent when it came to capturing the dogs’ attention. Or yours, as a matter of fact, but you weren’t brave enough to explore that thought yet.

“Awesome,” you said, moving the picture Harry had chosen to another folder. “Looks like we’ve got them all. I’ll do the Instagram account first; it should be up and running by tomorrow.”

You curled up on the yellow polka-dotted couch, your laptop on your stomach, and opened a new webpage. Before you could get started, however, the laptop was snatched up from your grasp and you looked up to see Harry grinning at you.

“Dude.”

“No more working,” he said, setting your laptop down on the coffee table. “I’m going bonkers, I need a break. And your stomach has been growlin’ for a good forty minutes, yeh need food.”

“Is that so?” you asked. “You gonna feed me, Styles?”

“I’m British, love. I can’t cook. Am very proficient with ordering out, though.”

Harry left to order some food, while you went through a tiny existential crisis on the couch.

There was a difference between _knowing_ British people called everybody and their mothers “love”, and actually being called that by a hot guy who dressed like a Parisian hippie and had 27 dogs under his care.

You had been with Harry all the time for nearly four days straight, while you cleaned up the rescue center. You’d seen him lift furniture, muscly and sweaty, before cuddling with dogs with that beautiful smile of his over his face.

And you were _weak_. If you were being honest, you had started getting those pesky butterflies in your stomach on day two, when you’d seen him run after Tampa, screeching because she’d stolen his sunglasses. What an _idiot_ , but, as it turned out, you were moronsexual.

And part of you felt like you were getting attached way too quickly, to the first person that gave you a bit of attention. But the other part, the one that already had dog memes saved on your phone to show Harry, that part was just going for it.

You sighed, letting your head fall from the back of the couch so that it was hanging above the ground. Poppy whined from her spot on the floor, looking at you upside down with judgemental eyes.

“I know, babe,” you told her. “I’m a mess.”

“Old news,” said Harry, coming back into the room. “Chinese is on the way. That alright with yeh?”

“Sure, love me some dumplings.”

Harry laughed and, before you could react, lifted your legs off the couch and set next to you before pulling your knees back down on his lap. He leaned back against the pillow, as if you weren’t absolutely _dying_ right next to him.

Your calves felt like they were on _fire_ , and you were sure that if dogs could laugh, Poppy would be howling at the look on your face. You felt like a middle schooler having a crush for the first time.

“I’m knackered,” sighed Harry. “Feel like I could sleep for a century.”

“Your dogs might have something to say about that,” you replied, relieved that your voice didn’t sound as weak as you thought it would.

“Fuck ‘em. They get to sleep all day long, it’s my turn.”

You giggled ( ~~actually giggled, who the hell were you becoming?~~ ) and raised your head so you could look at him better.

“I googled you last night,” you told him, and he lifted a single eyebrow. “Found out some interesting stuff.”

“God Almighty.”

“Four nipples, uh?”

He laughed, throwing his head back against the couch. His cheeks were turning red, and it was _adorable_.

“No need to be embarrassed,” you said. “I’ve got some anatomical anomalies too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve got ACHOO syndrome.”

Harry barked out a laugh, his right hand falling from your knee onto your thigh.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Autosomal Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst. ACHOO. It’s a reflex that makes you sneeze when you’re looking at bright lights, like the sun. Aristotle thought that it was because the sun caused sweating inside your nose, and so you had to sneeze to get it out.”

“That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Jesus.”

You kicked your heel into his ribs, laughing as he groaned.

“I didn’t make fun of your extra nipples, you jerk, don’t make fun of my sun sneezing.”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture, looking at you with a soft, soft smile on his lips.

“Yeh’re something else, Y/N.”

You shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, but there was too much weight in his words, and you were sure it showed in your eyes. But screw him, and his pretty words. What else were you supposed to do, but melt completely?

“Harry?” you asked, your tone unsure. “Will you – No, I’m sorry, nevermind.”

“What is it?”

“It’s just…do you still sing?”

He nodded, his thumb rubbing circles on your knees.

“Want me to sing for yeh?”

“I do,” you breathed out, then added casually: “Poppy would like to hear it too.”

Your dog raised her head, one ear up, the other down, confused.

“Yeah, she looks excited,” laughed Harry. “Fine, just gotta get my guitar.”

You raised your legs so he could get up, and definitely did _not_ stare at his ass as he walked away from you. Your heart was beating fast enough to power a lightbulb, and the butterflies in your stomach were turning into fire-breathing dragons.

When Harry came back with his guitar, you were sitting cross-legged on the couch, Poppy’s huge body on top of your lap. She was panting happily, her tale wagging as Harry settled back next to you. He looked nervous, and you could have sworn you saw his fingers shake as he flexed them.

“Any request?” he asked.

“I guess, either something that makes me cry like a baby or laugh like a lunatic.”

“Baby Shark it is, then.”

You punched his shoulder and he nudged you aside, an amused smile on his lips. You settled your chin on top of Poppy’s head, your fingers buried in her furs as Harry took in a deep breath.

And then, he was off.

His hands slid over the strings, the melody filling the empty silence of the room with an ease that could only come from frequent practice.

“ _I’m in my bed and you’re not here_ ,” his voice rang out, and your entire body went loose. “ _And there’s no one to blame but the drink and my wandering hands._ ”

God, you had asked him to sing you something that would make you cry, but it had been a joke. Just a joke, but here you were, your eyes burning and mouth open as you listened to the angel of a man on the couch next to you.

“ _What am I now? What am I know? What if I’m someone I don’t want around?”_

He was _beautiful_. Entirely focused on the music, not even looking at the strings as he sang, the line of his throat sinful as he threw back his head on the chorus.

“ _I’m falling again, I’m falling again, I’m falling. What if I’m down? What if I’m out? What if I’m someone you won’t talk about?_ ”

Inside your chest, this desire to embrace him and tell him everything was going to be okay rose, and rose, and rose again. And those were definitely tears in your eyes because you had known him for such little time, but you already felt like he was part of you. Like Poppy, in a way, but it was different.

“ _And I get the feeling that you’ll never need me again…”_

But you wanted him to need you, and you wanted to need him. You felt like you were going insane with the desire of it. You wanted to hold his hands, and take care of his dogs, take care of him. You wanted to buy him stupid keychains and call him in the middle of the night to ask him for a song. You wanted him to feel whole, and happy, and free.

You were crying then, and so you rested your head on his shoulder so he wouldn’t see as he finished the song, the guitar steady in his hands. And when the last note rang, he didn’t say anything as he sang again, and again, and again. Songs that you had a feeling nobody had ever heard before, songs that he’d written in the dead of nights, and had deemed you worthy enough to listen to.

And perhaps it was because of that gift that you asked the question that had been rising in your chest with each note and did not fear.

“Will you hate me if I kiss you?”

His fingers stopped moving, and you lifted your head to look at him, your gaze meeting the sea in his own.

“I’ll hate you if you don’t.”

It was so _easy_ to curl your fingers at the nape of his neck, and gently pull his face towards yours. So easy, the way you nudged your nose against his and his hand slid in your hair. So easy, to press your lips against his.

And it felt as if you could taste his songs when his tongue danced with yours. Each movement was a note, each breath a symphony. It was like kissing a concert, touching a festival. Drums and violins and trumpets, this man was.

When you parted, it did not seem like an end but, cliché as it was, like a beginning. He tucked a rebel strand of hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek, the skin burning beneath his lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeh’re somethin’ else.”

******

You grinned as Mrs. Tabitha Walker walked out of the rescue center, Pongo by her side. It was dusk, and you closed the door to the rescue center as she waved at you from her car.

Pongo was the fourth dog to have been adopted this day alone. To Harry’s surprise, the social media accounts were working even better than expected. And while it was always hard for him to part from his dogs, he could rest easy knowing they were going to happy homes.

You _all_ had happy homes, now. And while technically, you still lived in your little apartment in Sun Valley, you weren’t blind to the fact that most of your clothes were folded alongside Harry’s, in the little studio built above the rescue center.

Poppy barked happily as you climbed up the stairs, to where you could hear Harry strumming his guitar. You entered the studio, immediately spotting your man perched on the edge of the couch, frowning as he focused on a brand-new melody.

“Is it coming along?” you asked, kicking off your shoes.

“Not as well as I’d hoped,” he groaned. “This chorus is kicking my arse.”

He pushed the guitar away and made grabby hands your way, looking like a surly toddler crying for a cookie. You didn’t resist and let him pinch your shirt so he could pull you onto his lap. His head fell against your shoulder, those wild curls of his tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

“You know what would make writing song easier?” you asked, brushing a hand down his back.

“Not this again,” he groaned.

“I’m just saying! You could reach out to other professionals; I know you still have a ton of phone numbers in that notebook you keep hiding from me.”

He pinched your side.

“I’m hidin’ it from yeh because I’m writin’ some very special songs and I don’t want yeh to see.”

“Fine,” you sighed. “I won’t look. As long as you promise me something.”

“Anythin’.”

“Make sure to write a song about your four nipples and my ACHOO syndrome. Then we’re good.”

“I hate you.”

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: https://outer-space-writings.tumblr.com/


End file.
